And the Puck rolls down the ice
by radcgg
Summary: AU in three parts. Noah Puckerman discovers hockey at six years old. Twenty years later it's his whole life.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** And the Puck rolls down the ice  
**Characters:** Puck/Rachel, various cast members, and a brief appearance by Papa Puckerman  
**Word Count:** just under 5K  
**Summary: AU. **Noah "Puck" Puckerman discovered hockey when he was six years old, twenty years later it is his whole life.  
Disclaimer: I do not own _Glee, _Ryan Murphy and Co. do_._ No copyright infringement intended.**  
AN: **Too many people to thank (they know who they are). Yes, we Canadians (for the most part) love our hockey. So why not put my favourite things together in an epic monstrosity.

Feedback is always appreciated.

Noah Puckerman is six years old the first time he tries on hockey skates. The second his dad finishes pulling the laces hard he actually thinks it feels really weird and kind of bad. It hurts a lot more than his regular shoes with the Velcro on them. But his dad is going to skate with him, so he smiles. His mom is at home with the baby, stupid Sarah. Besides, having free time with his dad is so rare, he's going to love every minute of it even if his feet fall off.

He's wearing his favourite sweater and a pair of mittens that his mom made him bring (he told her that he didn't need them but she wouldn't listen. She always treats him like such a baby).

His dad isn't wearing any gloves. Noah wants to leave his pair on the bench somewhere but he knows that his mom will be really mad if he comes home without them.

"You ready, buddy?"

He can't do anything but look and nod at his dad as their hands link and they walk over the black rubber that bounces a bit with each step (which should be hard, but it isn't).

His dad steps onto the ice first, the skates slide a bit underneath him, and yeah, maybe Noah's a little bit afraid because it's ice and ice is slippery (like this one time when he accidentally left the ice cubes from his drink on the floor then his dad slipped and fell. His dad said some bad words that day). Noah really doesn't want to fall.

He sucks in a deep breath and steps out onto the ice holding on to his dad's hand. He walks along, picking up his feet, keeping close to the boards.

"Noah, try to glide. Leave your feet on the ice and push with one foot, then the other." His dad turns around and skates backwards. Noah thinks that one day he'd like to be able to do that.

So he tries, sliding one foot along the ice then the other. Just as he's beginning to smile and get a rhythm he hits a rut in the ice and falls, hitting his knees hard. He doesn't cry though, because only babies cry and he's not a baby anymore. But maybe his eyes sting a little bit.

His dad picks him up, whispering nice things into his ear – "You did a great job, buddy. You fell and you didn't even cry. I'm really proud of you." - and they try again, sliding along together.

By the end of the free hour at the local rink, Noah Puckerman knows that he loves skating. He sits on the bleachers as his dad removes his skates, slowly pulling at the ties until he can move his toes again.

A group of older boys glide out onto the ice in baggie shirts with helmets and funny sticks. They're moving a small black thing around and around. He feels one skate come off but keeps watching the boys. They set out these weird net things, and Noah is absolutely fascinated.

"Dad, what's that?" He pulls on his dad's sleeve.

"It's just a hockey game, Noah."

"Hockey." He watches as one of the boys slaps the puck up high into the net and raises his arms (it's kind of like when his dad watches football and those guys get the ball past the line and they start to dance, only different).

He thinks he likes it. Maybe he should try out this hockey thing.

Twenty years later, he still feels that thrill whenever he laces up his own skates, though he doesn't think about his dad anymore (bastard left them when Puck was nine with no warning).

He's playing professionally in the league he always wanted to. It's his career (not just a job, but a calling).

He loves going to practice in the mornings. Coach is normally pretty tough on them, making them do sprints and drills and whatever. Doesn't change the fact that the Ohio Titans haven't won a game all season.

He plays along with some stand-up guys. Hudson isn't just his captain, but also his best friend. They room together on road trips. Rutherford, Chang, and Hummel are pretty great, too. Good friends to have in a tight spot (which he finds himself in fairly frequently). They've all been playing together for four years now, so they're a cohesive unit.

If only they could get the rest of the team to improve. They all seem to spend more time taking penalties than anything else.

Which is maybe why the Ohio Titans publicly announce on the 30th of September, three weeks before their season opener, that they have new ownership.

It isn't until after practice, where Coach Tanaka has casually mentioned the shift to the team as a whole, that the shit really hits the fan.

"I heard that it was some chick." Matt is always the most soft spoken guy on the team, but even he seems angry at this news. The team hadn't known that ownership was up for sale. Would the new owner be making changes in the line up? Dicking around with the team?

"I saw her and she looks like a fucking fifteen year old," Dave Karovski, their goalie, said.

"What the fuck would a chick know about hockey, Puck?" The nickname "Puck" had been given to him sometime in junior high school and it had stuck.

"Normally nothing, dude, but that's no fucking surprise. Chicks like that are normally only interested in one thing: money. It's fucking sick. She's probably just some snotty nosed cunt who couldn't possibly care at all about the team or the game. Probably looking for some quickie investment or some shit. I'm sure she'll stay out of our hair."

At least he really hopes so.

After practice the next day, Tanaka tells Puck the new owner wants to speak to him, so after he showers and redresses he takes the elevator up to the 500 level offices.

The glass door still has the prior owner's name on it, printed in that peeling paint that's supposed to stay forever, but is really easy to take off with a putty knife. He wonders why she hasn't taken care of that already.

He knocks politely even though she must be expecting him and enters when she calls out for him to come in.

The first thought that occurs to him when he walks into the office is that she looks nothing like a fifteen year old. He would know, his sister was one just a few years ago. And Sarah sure as shit did not look like this chick. Glossy brown hair, pulled back halfway, dark brown eyes that seemed to take up the half of her face left over from that wide mouth of hers, slim shoulders, small boobs (kind of a downer, but not a deal breaker by any means), a white shirt meeting a black skirt at a slender waist.

She rises from her desk and stretches out a hand motioning to the chair in front of it (he sees just a hint of thigh underneath the painfully short skirt of her suit). He sits down, leaning back in the soft chair and folding his hands in his lap.

"Mr. Puckerman, I'm sure you can perfectly comprehend why I've requested your presence here today." She's hot as fuck, with a voice to match, but why does she talk like a Rhodes Scholar? Why can't she just talk like a normal human being?

"No, actually I have no idea why you wanted me to come in." He wants nothing more than to be able to take in that tight little body of hers. She might cover it up with a blouse and jacket but he's seen what's under that table and it's a short little pencil skirt (the only reason he knows that it's called a pencil skirt is 'cause he grew up with two chicks in the house. He was bound to pick up some shit from them).

"I'm absolutely aware, Mr. Puckerman, that you don't believe I have either the knowledge base or the resolve to stay with this team. I understand that you think me a simpleton, and a quack, and a slew of other derogatory things, one of which I believe was a 'snotty nosed cunt who couldn't possibly care at all about the great game of hockey or my team.' Did I get that right?" She folds her hands on the desk like she's nervous, but he knows that she's not. She knows exactly what she's doing and how she's doing it and why. And fuck, she's totally going to kick him off the team, isn't she? Because yeah, he said that shit, but it's just locker room talk (mostly).

Whatever anyone else may say about Puck, he is not a pussy, and he's not a liar. So he uses silence to confirm her story. He does, however, raise an eyebrow.

"In the future I would ask that you kindly keep you opinions of me to yourself, or at the very least out of my locker room. You are on my team and, as such, are my property for as long as I decide to keep you. I can trade you at any time. I can send you to our farm team in Bumfuck, Nebraska. I can ruin your life. Is that plain enough for you, Mr. Puckerman?"

And all he can think is how fucking hot she is when she's all riled up (when her eyes flicker over him) and how much he'd like to watch her free fall. Naked, of course, and on his cock, or his mouth, or his fingers. Fuck if he's not hard, and it's only partly because he can totally dig when the chick takes charge.

But on the other hand this chick is trying to tell him to shut up and put up. Basically calling him out on his shit and who the fuck does she think she is? Oh, yeah. The new owner. The fucking hot new owner.

"Sure, babe. It's clear," he says as his eyes run blatantly over her body. She stands up from her chair and he takes in the yards of leg she shows because of the belt she wears as a skirt, the tight (tight, tight) blouse she wears buttoned up just past the upper edge of her boobs (he knows it's supposed to be modest but it's not really). The V of the neckline is not deep and along her collarbone rests a simple silver chain with a small Star of David. His gaze trails up even further, past the pin straight shiny brown hair, to a soft chin, up to full, fuck me lips (that would look amazing painted red and sliding over his cock leaving oil-based rings around him as she swallows – oh fuck). Over a nose that is maybe too big to keep her from being gorgeous or even beautiful, but it gives her an edge. Her eyes are outlined in kohl, smudged enough to look sexy (like she just woke up from being thoroughly fucked and didn't have time to fix herself properly).

"Mr. Puckerman." Damn, he likes the way she says his name, like it's got a melody. "I am not in the habit of being ogled by employees, so kindly desist. You are my player and, as such, our relationship will be kept strictly asexual, platonic, and business-like." She steps around the desk with those legs ending in those towering heels that only midgets wear to try and make them seem normal sized or whatever. "You will not make any advances towards me and I will not have to file a complaint of harassment with the board."

A girl like that, one who requires effort and skill and class (who might seem like a challenge, a thrilling sexual conquest), isn't worth the time. He's practically drowning in willing pussy. So why waste the energy since she clearly cannot appreciate the wonder of the Puckerone.

"Fair enough, Ms- ?" His voice trails off because she never really did introduce herself though he knows her name perfectly well.

"Berry," she says putting out a hand for him to grab and shake (her handshake is firmer than he'd anticipated but whatever, she's still just a chick), "Rachel Berry."

"You do write the checks, after all." He winks at her and gives her a final appraisal before walking to the door.

"Mr. Puckerman?"

"Yeah, babe?" He turns to look at her and he's not entirely prepared for what he finds – her small body propped up on the edge of her desks, legs crossed primly (yeah right!) in front of her, hands on either side of her body, leaning back ever so slightly. If her legs were open he'd totally bury his tongue inside her.

And while he's busy fantasizing about how good she would taste to him, she's giving her retort.

"Prepare for some changes. The status quo is dead." She turns around, officially dismissing him.

The rink is locked the next morning, with a note "Practice cancelled" on the door.

He starts the free day at the gym with Finn. After doing a bit of cardio and some weights they head over to his apartment to play X-Box, 'cause what guy in his right mind would spend a free day doing anything else?

Dinner is pizza and beer with the boys and then some poker.

He hardly has time at all to think about the new hottie behind the owner's desk.

Hardly.

Except that after the guys leave (Finn complaining that his girlfriend is waiting for him at home, fresh off the afternoon shift at the hospital; Matt and Mike putting in that their wives are waiting at the bar) and he's alone with his hand, he imagines that it's hers.

When he comes, it's hard and with her name on his lips and her body in his mind.

The first thing he notices when he parks his truck at practice the next day is that Coach's car isn't in the lot.

There is, however, a nice looking red Hummer there.

The locker room is unnaturally tense. The guys don't talk as they put on their pads and lace their skates before walking out to the ice.

When he steps out he understands why.

"Listen up you mindless mouth-breathing morons, your Coach Tanaka has taken a permanent sabbatical called 'termination papers.' You call me Coach now. That, or Queen Sylvester. I'm here to turn you all from the losers you are into the winners I need. I want a damn hovercraft and you are going to help me get it. Now skate, you mindless pussies. One thousand laps of the rink."

She's tall, pushing six feet, so she is at eye level for most of the guys save Hudson. Her hair is cropped and blonde, her eyes are a bright blue. She might be pretty if she didn't so obviously bat for the other team. Well, technically he guesses they bat for the same team, 'cept she's a woman(dinosaur/monster hybrid) going after women and he's a dude so it's not really the same at all. Not that he's got a problem with that. Hell, he and Hummel get along just great, even in the showers when the kid is looking him up and sighing and shit. He knows that he's a hot commodity, so what if the token gay guy on the team wants to check him out? He's made it abundantly clear that he is a women-only kind of dude, so they're totally cool.

"What are you waiting for? Or should I make it two thousand laps just to make it easy on you?"

He doesn't understand what the fuck is going on, even as Rachel Berry's ominous words run through his head talking about a fucking status quo or something. What did that even mean anyway?

She works them hard that day.

And not in the good way.

Puck never thought he would ever say that he missed Tanaka, but he does.

He steps into the shower never thinking anything when the locker room door opens as he lathers his soap.

"You're soft. Useless. If you thought today's practice was hard, please walk your whiny ass out of my locker room because you belong to me now, and if you're too chicken-shit to take this tea party you're not fit to be on my squad. At age one I had mastered the ancient art of water torture. By the age of five I could demonstrate ten different ways to kill someone with a toothpick as my only weapon. Eleven saw me joining the armed forces and fighting the war in Iraq, the first time around. Twenty saw me back as a sniper. Imagine what I'm capable of today."

Coach Sylvester doesn't seem to care that half of her players are naked or mostly naked so he just continues to shower while listening to her speech. He thinks is supposed to be inspiring, but he's not sure.

"If you thought this pitiful charade of a practice was hard, try swimming through an ocean squall, that's hard. Practice tomorrow at 5. If you're going to be late, don't bother coming at all. We start the cuts next week and you'll save my printer some ink."

With that she stomps out of the room.

He concentrates on rinsing the sweat off his body rather than on Coach Sylvester's rant. She's already tougher than Tanaka ever was, even when he was raging mad.

He doesn't think about it anymore until he steps out of the shower with a towel wrapped loosely around his hips and the locker room talk begins.

"Who the fuck does she think she is?"

"What's her problem?"

"Why'd they fire Coach?"

"I don't think that lesbo has ever played hockey before. What would she know about coaching it?"

His pants are on and buttoned before Finn steps in to stop the trash talking.

"Let's give her a chance, guys. She seems really dedicated and maybe we'll start to win. You remember what that was like right?"

That shuts them up quick.

When he leaves, it's with some questions of his own, but he's smart enough to keep his mouth shut. Sylvester is their coach now, Tanaka is gone. It's not like they were fucking BFFs of anything anyway. In Puck's humble opinion, the other guys should just suck it up.

"Hudson! Puckerman!" Coach Sylvester yells at him from across the ice a week later. The practices haven't gotten any easier. In fact, Sylvester's demands have become even more insane since that first one. The locker room bitching has increased, too. They're all acting like little whiny five year olds and he's fucking sick of it.

He skates over to her out of breath, waiting for Finn to join them before saying, "Yeah, Coach?"

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Running drills, Coach," Hudson says.

"Really? Because from what I could determine you and your pathetic team of doughboys were having a little Mexican fiesta over there. I want you to run those drills again, and this time I want you to run them hard." She yells at him, and yeah, he's a little bit scared ('cause fuck, Sylvester is a scary bitch when she wants to be, which is all the fucking time).

As they're skating away, he speaks quietly to Finn. "Dude, she's fucking insane."

"Yeah, but does it work for her?"

Puck nods because he really does believe that Sylvester is going to shake things up in a good way. So he rushes over to his group and they run them again. Faster this time and harder.

It's not until practice ends almost two hours later that he looks into the stands and sees Rachel Berry, wearing pants this time. Still looking hot as ever. And even though his body is tired, seeing her gives him a boost, especially when her eyes lock with his and she shudders out a breath before licking her lips.

When he leaves the locker room that day, it's with some extra swagger to his step.

The thing is, even with all of Sylvester's crazy, the team has actually improved and by the time their first game rolls around they actually manage to score some goals. Maybe they don't win just yet, but they score, which is better than nothing.

After the game he sees Rachel stalking the tunnel between the locker room and the ice.

He's already halfway to her before she whispers his name.

"Yeah, babe." He steps right up in front of her, pressing her into the wall without lifting a finger. Her lips are a shiny pink colour tonight, her hair is slightly curled and messy, but the suit remains proper. He does lift a finger then, dragging it along her fabric covered arm. Up, then down, then back up again, never once taking his eyes off her lips because he still can't get the image of her swallowing hard around his cock out of his head, and even more than that he wants to know what she tastes like and if she wears the sticky kind of lip gloss or the slippery kind.

"You played well tonight." Hell yeah, he had.

He finally looks into her eyes, to see her watching him with interest.

"But there's still room for improvement. I'll see you at tomorrow's practice," she says as she pushes past him and walks down the hallway.

She leaves him standing there with his fingers suspended in mid-air. And he just knows that he has to have her.

"Alright, you pathetic mouth-breathers, you're still crap out there on the ice." They'd won a game last week, the first since early last season, but Sylvester takes insane pleasure in riding them hard (in a completely non-sexual context). "So, next week we will be extending practice by two hours, every day."

The team would groan, but they know that only makes Sue Sylvester even meaner and more determined, so her resolution is met with silence. Just a long look between him and Finn.

The next day every player shows up and no one complains when Sue sticks to her guns and keeps them running drills and plays until midway through the afternoon.

He sees Rachel in the stands every day but he never finds her in the tunnel waiting for him.

December's game schedule allows for Puck to spend almost a week at home in Lima with his mom and sister. He's a bit late for Hanukkah, but Sarah and his mom forgive him and exchange gifts anyway.

Mid-way through the break he invites Finn, Matt and Mike over for an X-Box showdown.

The evening is filled with Halo. He fucking laughs each time he blows some fucking alien's head wide open. "Die, motherfucker, die," Finn screams at the T.V.

Mike and Matt mostly exchange quiet high fives each time they shoot at the foreign bodies, though Puck thinks Matt gets satisfaction from seeing the blood spatter on the grass, or the beach, or the concrete. Puck does too, so he's in no position to judge.

He hardly thinks of Rachel Berry at all (though he doesn't hook up either).

The Titans start to win in earnest after the break. Which, of course, is when things change.

They're playing Michigan on a Thursday night at the arena and it's a physical game. Guys have been pounded into the boards all night, but that doesn't really faze Puck. He's a physical player so he doesn't make any changes to his game.

But Hudson does. He's been hitting and checking hard all game. But this jerk, 42, comes and hits him from behind into the boards. Hudson goes down, but there's no call (fucking refs). Thank God Karovski is on his game; he keeps the puck out of the net and stops the play. Hudson fucking limps off the ice, and goes straight into the dressing room with Sylvester's blessing.

Suddenly Coach is right behind Puck's helmet, hitting it lightly saying, "Go get him," like she's unleashing a caged animal and giving him leave to hunt and kill. Finn's his boy and more than that, he's the captain, and you can't just hit the captain and expect to get away with it. So Puck waits on the ice until 42 shows up again.

When the guy gets the puck, Puckerman does what he does best. He pushes the guy hard and the douche retaliates.

Before he really internalizes what's going on (because, face it, fighting is like breathing to Puck), both players' gloves and helmets are skidding along the ice somewhere.

Puck just keeps hitting, and the guy keeps hitting back.

He doesn't know what eventually makes him stop. If it's someone's arms pulling him off, or someone yelling at him. He looks down at his hands, his knuckles are covered in lacerations. Then he looks at the ice which has a weird sort of red splatter pattern on it. His blood, and the douchebag's.

He's kicked out of the game, but he doesn't really care because the look on Sylvester's face is one of pride. He swears he hears her yell "Good job, Puckerman," to him before he goes down the tunnel to the locker room.

"Puck, what happened, dude?" Finn is all concerned when Puck walks into the locker room with three minutes gone in the third period.

"I got into a bit of a scuffle," he responds as one of the trainers, Kirk (yes, like Captain Kirk – that dude was badass), starts to clean and bandage the cut he feels stinging over his eye. "I'm done for the game."

"Why the hell would you do that, dude? You're supposed to lead the team when I'm not there, and I'm clearly not able to right now and you're down here with me. Who is left out there?" It sounds almost like Finn is pissed at him. Pissed that he fucking defended Finn's C from those assholes.

"They can't go after you and expect to get away with it," he says after a few minutes of silent contemplation.

It's maybe the most serious talk they've ever had during a game. Ever. And they've played together for ten years, since they were both sophomores.

"Okay Hudson, time to go." Finn slides off the chair and walks in his skates to the door.

"Thanks," Finn tells Puck as he exits to go and see the on-call doctor.

"Yeah, whatever, man." He smiles back at his friend until the door closes behind him.

Berry walks through the locker room door maybe five minutes after Finn leaves. She walks right up to Kirk, doesn't say a fucking thing to Puck.

They're speaking in low tones so he can't really hear what they're talking about.

She doesn't say a word to him. Not a single one, from the time she enters to the time she leaves two minutes later. She does, however, look at him and for the first time since he's entered the locker room, he feels sick. The way she's looking at him almost makes him feel ashamed. Almost.

She nods her head sharply at him and leaves.

He just hopes this fight hasn't fucked things up for him.


	2. Chapter 2

**~ 5K or so for this chapter.**

**Thank you to the people who left comments. They are my sunshine! :)**

The league hands him a pretty harsh suspension the very next day. Five games (four of the five at home). No pay. The other guy only got four, but whatever. Puck assumes (quite rightly) that the league has something to prove to the players and Puck and the douche are going to be the example sent out for all the other teams.

Day one is spent at home mostly. His hands are still swollen and sore (and he's not permitted to practice with the team during his suspension.

He goes for a five mile run (which is a bit longer than he'd usually do), but what else does he have going for him? He's not going to bother with the gym until his hands have healed a bit more. The afternoon is spent playing Call of Duty.

Finn comes over in the late evening and they share a six pack of Bud while Finn talks about the game. Apparently, Sylvester has told everyone know that she approves heartily of his actions in the game, whatever the consequence.

Still, it's good to know that his teammates can win without him.

Day two is much the same.

He meets Kurt up for a game of one-on-one after the practice he's not allowed to attend (he sits in the stands and watches them, takes in the drills, and the plays).

They're outside on the court and thank God, it's stopped raining. It's been like the wettest Ohio spring on the fucking record.

Kurt's actually a decent player. The dude is small as fuck, and _fast, _so Puck has worked up quite the sweat after only a few minutes. Puck has height on his side and his huge and awesome body. On one particular shot, Kurt is right in front of him blocking pretty fucking well for such a midget. He releases the ball and it swishes through the net but Kurt pushes him back just a little bit and he lands on his ass _hard, _Kurt's tiny (somewhat feminine) body on top of him.

"Dude, I totally knew you wanted to fuck me!" He smiles up at Kurt. "Who wouldn't want this body!" He runs his hands down his sides.

"Dream on, Puckerman. You're not my type." Kurt pushes up and runs to grab the ball bouncing it all the way to half court.

"What do you mean?" He doesn't mean to sound hurt, but seriously, who wouldn't want his totally smokin' hot bod?

"I like mine," he pauses, "educated." Kurt dribbles the ball around Puck's body and jumps high throwing the ball to the hoop, scoring another two points.

"Whatever, Hummel." He laughs.

Day three is different.

He makes it to the gym. Lifts weights for a good forty minutes before running on the treadmill.

Plays Call of Duty.

After dinner, he turns on the news.

The headline "Titan's Boss Speaks Up for Her Man." Well, sex sells.

She looks good (she always looks good). She's taken the time to smudge up her eyes again, just the way he likes. On the T.V. screen they are like ten times their normal size and so is her mouth (he'd be lying if he says that he doesn't still fantasize about the taste of those lips).

She talks a bit about the game, about how Rutherford has stepped up, about the fact that she agrees with Sylvester's assessment no matter what. But then she gets asked about him.

"Ms. Berry, there have been rumours that Noah Puckerman might not be returning to the Ohio Titans. Do you have any comment?"

She takes a moment to compose herself, breathing deeply like she does from time to time, collecting her words (which he thinks is super sexy). "While Mr. Puckerman's actions may have been rash, the Titans Organization is standing behind him and fighting for his reinstatement. We feel that Mr. Puckerman has been severely reprimanded for a relatively minor infraction. We are confident that he will be back at the William McKinley Arena soon."

He smiles at the T.V. before turning it off.

The next evening he pulls on his jacket (an old leather one that he bought with the money he earned from his pool cleaning business in high school) and walks out to his truck.

He drives a few blocks to the nearest liquor store, thanking God that it's Friday and they're open late. He picks out a nice bottle of wine (meaning one that was more expensive than most and Italian, because what the fuck does he know about fermented grape juice) and continues the drive to her place.

He's been there once before; he'd driven her home after a particularly enjoyable party for the team. She'd been so exhausted that she'd nearly passed out after one drink and being the gentleman, he'd offered to drive her home (really Finn had offered and Puck had interjected because if anyone was going to take Rachel home it was going to be him).

It's not until he rings the doorbell that he really starts to think about what he's doing. Why the fuck is he bringing her a bottle of wine? What the fuck does that even mean? And why –

She opens the door quickly and the first thing he notices is that she's wearing a pair of sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt with the Titans' Logo on it. Her hair is pulled up into a messy ponytail folded over so that it looks like a short bump on the back of her head. Her face is naked, none of that eye stuff he loves or shine on her lips or anything.

He fucking loves it.

He doesn't know that she's ever looked so amazing before. Not in those fancy little suits of hers or that slinky black dress she wore the last time he drove to her place.

"Puck, what are you doing here?" Her voice is still sex, and he's already half hard thinking about what she may or may not have on under those nondescript clothes of hers, which doesn't help things at all.

"Can I come in?" He's pretty sure he hasn't asked to be let in to a woman's home since before junior high. Lord knows, the cougars were always eager to have him in their houses to service their needs (whatever those might be, from unclogging drains to BDSM in the bedroom).

She hesitates before opening the door for him to step through. It is late, and maybe he should have called but he wanted to talk to her in person.

"I just wanted to say thank you," he thrusts the bottle at her. "You're really standing behind me and that's a pretty fucking classy thing to do, especially considering our past dealings." He walks over to sit on the tan leather sofa in the middle of the living room. The cushions are so soft he sinks right into them. It's awesome. He wonders why she would ever move from it. The fucking thing practically hugs him. Looking for an artificial relationship? Look no further than some strips of leather and plush filling for everything you need. Sexual gratification not included.

Rachel disappears for a while into another room. He spends the time looking around without moving anything but his head. She has pictures of herself with flowers two guys on either side of her, all beaming at the camera. He wonders which one is her dad. He thinks it must be the shorter white dude with the glasses, 'cause she sure isn't black like the taller one.

The walls of the room are painted a delicate cream. She has brightly coloured abstract paintings hanging besides photographs in black and white. All in all, he finds the room (and her) fascinating.

When she comes back it's with the bottle open and two long stemmed glasses. She sets all three things down on her coffee table and sits in a chair across from him. She tucks her legs underneath her (she fits just perfectly between the two arm rests).

"You don't deserve to be ostracized because you believe that the word 'team' stands for something greater. You're too much of an asset for us to take any other stance."

She talks about it like it's really some kind of business deal, nothing personal, nothing emotional involved. It actually pisses him off. A lot.

She pours two glasses of wine and hands him one, the collar of the shirt hanging down just enough for him to see that she's not wearing anything underneath it. His anger from earlier mixes with the knowledge that she is a bit of a cold hearted bitch, but none of it seems to matter to his hormones. He still wants to fuck her. Badly.

"So, that's all it is? Just a good business move? You know, we're a team out there. A fucking unit. We have to have each other's backs or we're nothing." He keeps his voice even, gritting some of the words softly through his teeth. "Then you come in and you just take over things and treat us like all we are is fucking property to you. You need to get to know your team." He drinks a bit of the red liquid and it's actually not that bad. It does have a little bit of a weird aftertaste though.

"Mr. Puckerman," she sips casually from her glass and he thinks it's maybe the sexiest thing he's ever seen, "this is my business. I am the team owner, not your compatriot or colleague. My job is not to become your best friend. I make decisions for this team, often extremely difficult ones. The termination of Ken Tanaka was one of those decisions, unfortunately. It had to be made."

He stands then because his first inclination is to yell at her or shake her until she understands that this is personal for them, her players. That it's more than just a job to them, it's their lives. What he's always been working for, always.

He drains the rest of the glass and places it on the table. "Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you." He starts to walk to her front door to show himself out, but her hand on his arm stops him.

"Puck?"

"Yeah." He turns and she's much too close, and he can smell the wine on her.

"A certain amount of dissociation is required for me to function. If I get to know the team, I won't be able to make those complicated decisions. That being said, thank you for the gift. It was very thoughtful." And suddenly her lips are on his, just pressing softly, not moving or anything else. And he's too shocked by her sudden bold streak for a few seconds that he can't do anything but let her kiss him. Just as she's about to pull back from him, his arms come around her pressing her tight little body closer to his, keeping her just there against his body.

Before he can even think about what he's doing, his mouth slants over hers once and she jumps a bit, so her hips can lock in place over his. So he can move her against the wall and push, grinding into her until neither of them is able to do anything but feel and react. His hands roam under the large t-shirt stroking the soft skin of her side just below her rib cage, his thumbs swirling in a steady motion as his mouth opens and his tongue slides against hers.

"Oh God," she whispers against him. He hands grip his shoulders, nails digging in as her body braces against his even more.

His fingers are skating along the seam of her sweatpants pressing up into her rubbing until she squeals into his mouth. He loves how he knows exactly what she needs (where she needs to be touched to go completely insane) without her saying a single thing. But he's getting desperate to really feel her, so his hand slips under the elastic waist of her pants and that, of course, is when she snaps out of her trance.

"God, Puck, we can't do this. I'm your boss and it's completely inappropriate and to be perfectly honest, I'm not ready for this kind of insistent attraction. I just need some time." Her legs are touching the ground, his hand is back under her shirt nowhere near her pants. But fuck, he needs to touch her again, harder this time so that she doesn't have time to think at all. But all he does is stare at her mouth briefly. Her lips are glossed and bruised and he loves that he made them that way.

"This isn't over." He says it to her quietly. "I'll see you at practice." Then he presses a quick and chaste kiss on her mouth, and walks back out to his truck.

He sees her in the stands at practice, his first day back.

Just like he told her he would.

Every game is a new challenge – how many hits can he make, points can he get. And after every game he tries to find Rachel Berry and make her understand that it's really not over. Because he still dreams of her, even more know that he knows what her mouth is capable of, what she tastes like.

The Titans leave on an eight game road trip. And Puck packs his life into a duffle bag and puts on his best suit before driving himself to the arena and getting on the bus with the other guys.

Their first game is in Nashville, so he spends the travel time on board the flight (with a nice little layover in Dallas... fucking Dallas? Could it be more out of the way?) trying to avoid thinking about the multitude of things (both dirty and depraved) that he wants to do with his boss.

She sits beside Sylvester on the plane, which stops him from making a move to join the mile high club (one membership that he has never had before).

They win the game, he scores in the second, and Rachel congratulates them all at the end of the night.

Most of the guys on the team decide to have a celebratory beer at the hotel bar. He's rooming with Finn who's still busy drinking with the rest of the team when she walks in. She sits down on a stool and orders a glass of wine, he sits beside her and orders a scotch neat, it's the cheap stuff besides there's only so much Bud a guy can drink. His arm rests next to hers, close enough that if he moved just a fraction of an inch they'd be touching, but they're not, which just makes it all the more potent.

"Puck."

"Berry."

"What are you doing?" She looks up at him a little bit confused. But the way she presses her lips together after she sips tells a different story and maybe she's thinking about the kisses they shared just as much as he is.

"Trying to seduce you." He whispers it close to her ear then goes back to looking at his drink.

"That's not a very good idea." She drags a finger around the rim of her glass, then brings it back up to her lips. He turns around to look at the rest of the team behind him. No one seems to be paying them any attention so he continues.

"I don't know. I think it's a pretty fucking great idea." He breathes the words over her skin and smiles to himself when goosebumps break along her skin.

"If you were trying to convince me to compromise myself morally and ethically, how exactly would you go about it?" She smiles coyly at him, playing with her glass again, running slender fingers along the stem (making him wish she would touch him like that, sliding soft finger pads along his skin, teasing and heating). "How would you seduce me, Puckerman?" And all the sudden it's a fucking challenge and there's no way he can lose this one. Let's face it, he's a badass motherfucker and if anyone is capable of making the proper and prim boss lose all control, it's him.

"I might start by telling you how beautiful you are." He sniffs lightly at her hair which smells of vanilla and spice. He keeps his voice low and rough. "Or if I were only interested in fucking you I might say that I've dreamed of having you a hundred different ways and every one of them ends the exact same: with your body arching into mine and my name tumbling from your mouth." He watches her legs shift, rub together before she crosses them tightly. "I might tell you that I wonder how many times I could make you come before you scream at me to stop. Or maybe I'd say that I've fantasized about having you beneath me, on top of me, of touching every inch of you from the your hair all the way to your toes, spending more time learning about all the secret places that make you squirm and sigh and moan."

He hears her breath catch and knows that he's won.

"I have a room upstairs."

"What number?" He whispers into her ear.

"413." She slides off the stool and grabs her purse. "I'll see you up there in five."

He settles his tab and hers with the bartender and after waiting a few moments, starts the walk towards the elevators of the hotel.

"Puckerman!" Fuck, he thinks.

"Where have you been, dude?" Rutherford grabs his shoulder and pulls him towards the tables that the guys have been sitting at for almost an hour now. They've ordered a few pitchers of beer which sit half empty in the middle of the tables.

"Have a drink," Chang calls to him. Suddenly he's in the chair across from Chang, with Hudson on one side talking to him about the game and all he really wants to do is go upstairs to room 413 and explore every inch of the most-likely naked woman behind the door.

He drains the glass of beer quickly only hearing fragments of the conversation.

"Dude, did you see how Hummel flattened that Tampa douche into the boards? That was fucking epic," says Rutherford.

"I did a little happy dance on the bench."

"What the hell, Chang?"

"I like to dance, what's wrong with that? My girl likes it. She says it's sexy."

Oh God, that was an image of Chang that Puck never needed to have. The Changster dressed in some little pink tutu with those little pink shoes with the laces up them, twirling around like a fairy. Fuck, maybe even with wings.

He laughs out loud, because what else can he really do with a picture like that in his head.

His glass is refilled and the conversation goes on and on and on. He tries to get away. He really does, but the guys keep asking him his opinion and he can't tell them how badly he wants to go upstairs and fuck their boss (he just doesn't think they'd understand, plus there are like ethical issues there or something). So he sits there with them watching the time tick by so slowly. Finally, what feels like hours later, he walks with Finn to the elevator.

He actually has to wait until Hudson is in the bathroom before he can sneak out of the room and down the two floors to her room (of course she had to be on a different fucking floor. Of course).

He knocks and knocks and knocks, but it's been over two hours since she left to come upstairs and even he doesn't think she would have waited that long for him.

He whispers into the door for her, waits with his ear pressed against the wood listening carefully for any movement. He must stand there for ten minutes at least before he finally gives up and walks back up to his room.

He lies to Finn, saying that he just went to get some ice. Hudson never even questions that he doesn't have a bucket with him.

He tosses and turns that night.

The next morning the team travels to Denver. Rachel sits three rows behind him so he finds himself making excuses to go to the back lavatory or take walks up and down the aisle hoping to meet her eyes and explain.

She never looks up at him, but each time he walks by her body tenses.

After they check in to the hotel (and he cleverly overhears which room Rachel's in) he goes upstairs and knocks on her door. She answers with a wet face cloth in her hand.

"Can I come in?" He pushes past her like he's not really asking even though he just did.

"What do you need, Puck?" He sits down on her bed, the bed where in a handful of hours she'll be sleeping (not if he can help it) probably naked (oh hell yes!). She stands in front of him, running the cloth over her face quickly.

"I wanted to explain about last night. I didn't mean to leave you hanging like that, but the guys –"

"It doesn't matter."

"Yes, it fucking does matter. I want you, Rachel, so badly I dream about it all the time." That shit is memorable and he figures that he should have her attention by now, if not her body on his.

"Puck," she stops him with a hand on his shoulder, and then seems to reconsider and moves her hand away from him. "Last night was simply an awakening. I feel, at this point in time, that it is more pertinent to maintain a structured working relationship then to dally in a sexual one. From now on I would appreciate it if we could keep our dealings professional."

He thinks his mouth must be hanging open, because this shit cannot be real. This is not the woman who listened to his fucking A-game yesterday and asked him up to her room. Who is this chick?

"Are you serious?" He has a little bit of a laugh to his voice. He just can't fucking believe that things have changed between them so quickly.

"Quite serious. Is that all, Mr. Puckerman?" She walks to the door and opens it, waiting patiently for him to leave.

He walks out the door without another word.

She must work pretty hard to stay away from him or something because he hardly fucking sees her for the next three days. Of course, that doesn't stop him from having pretty imaginative dreams. She's supposedly this former Broadway starlet and she's probably pretty fucking flexible, so there's the hotel room door, or the bed, in the shower, against the counter (he especially likes the one where they both get to watch in the mirror with her legs spread wide her toes barely touching the ground). Sometimes she rides him (he really loves watching her). But in reality he hasn't seen more than a few glimpses of her since that night at the bar.

He finally does get her alone in Florida. Even though it's February, it's warm and the Titans have won again. He's about to wander down to meet Chang and Rutherford at a bar down the street when he sees her walking along the stretch of tile in the hotel lobby.

He turns abruptly and falls into step with her to the elevator (with the idea of seducing a 'yes' out of her because Puck is so not used to being dismissed like he was a few days earlier). When the elevator doors open he follows Rachel to the back, a grin on his face and a million ideas for dirty things to do to her as soon as they're alone.

At the last minute an elderly couple enter pressing the seventh floor button.

He slowly slides his fingers down the side of his body so they come to stop only a few millimetres from hers. He watches her out of the corner of his eye as she moves away from him without being obvious. And all it does is make the game between them even more enjoyable.

The older couple (both sporting white hair and matching outfits) talk quietly to themselves so he takes the opportunity to snake his arm along behind Rachel, smiling brightly as she jumps slightly as his digits sweep over the soft silk of the camisole she has on under her unbuttoned jacket. Her skin warms beneath his hand until he's able to press his palm into her, shifting her body closer to his. He moves his hand so that it traces the band of her skirt before the elevator chimes and the elderly couple get off.

Rachel takes their departure as a sign to use all of the space available to distance herself from him.

He's not used to having women shy away from his touch (the opposite is normally the case).

"Come on, Rachel!" He walks right up so that his entire body barely brushes every part of hers and leans to whisper into her ear. "Let me make it up to you." He brings her fingers up to his lips kissing them slowly before threading his own fingers between them. "Did you use those fingers that night? To get you off? Were you satisfied?" Her breath releases by his ear and it sounds like victory to him. "Baby, I can use so much more. I want to touch you, then taste you, and just when you can't take anymore I'll slide my cock into you and it'll feel so good."

"No," she says and she sounds shit serious.

"What?"

"No." She pushes at his shoulders. "I don't want you to make it up to me. No, I didn't use my fingers. No, I don't want to know what you can do with yours. What I would really like is to be treated with respect by my players. What I would really like is to be able to say 'no' to his sexual advances and have those advances cease."

He steps away from her. When the door dings to signify their stop, she gets off saying a proper "Good night, Mr. Puckerman."

He stares at the closing doors before pressing the button for the lobby again.

He wakes up the next morning with a severe headache, in an unfamiliar bed (but that's nothing new). However, there's only one bed and he's not alone in it.

Black hair is sprawled over the pillow, the sheet pulled tightly over her shoulder but he can see her back (a beautiful golden expanse of skin). His hand is trapped underneath her so he moves it knowing that she's bound to wake up.

"Morning," she says in a sultry voice. She rolls and he looks at her, a beautiful woman, who knows that she's been used as a rebound fuck, but doesn't seem to care. Her dark eyes are smiling at him even as she climbs over his hips sleepily rummaging through the night stand until she finds what she's looking for.

Her boobs are right in front of his face so, of course he presses his lips to one, biting softly, then soothing with slow swipes of his tongue.

She tears into the condom quickly rolling it down on him. She fucks him quickly, coming with a stream of profanities that he finds strangely sexy (maybe because he can't imagine Rachel swearing, she would think it crass and unbecoming).

As he dresses, grateful that all the rooms at his hotel look the same, she calls out to him. "Tina." He turns to her after he yanks his shirt down. "That's me. Tina."

He grabs her by the hand and pulls her out of the bed naked. He kisses her mouth hard as his hands run along her curves pausing when he gets to her hair to play with the bright blue streaks she has. Asians are so hot.

"Noah," he responds and it's the first time he's actually wanted someone to call him that.

"It was nice to meet you, Noah." She smiles at him not at all shy about her body. Doesn't ask for his number, doesn't ask for his last name. She might be the perfect woman.

"Likewise," he says as he leaves her room, checking the door to see that he's two floors up from where he needs to be.

He sees Rachel in the hallway on the way to gather his things. "Hey boss," he says quickly before sliding his key card into the slot to open the door. He doesn't even look at her face. Doesn't want his post-sex buzz to be destroyed by whatever he might find there.

Finn is there, sitting on his bed, but he doesn't look particularly impressed by the post-coital haze or the content expression on Puck's face. Puck nods to his friend and steps into the bathroom to shower off the booze and sex.

"Downstairs in ten, Puckerman," he hears Finn yell through the bathroom door.

The road trip ends four days later and he's fucked two more girls (or women or whatever) he's picked up at the hotel bar. It's so simple, it's not even funny. He listens to them for about half an hour, buys them a drink (or maybe has them buy him one – he's not sexist), then casually suggests they find a quiet place to talk.

Every time it gets a little easier to see the green or blue eyes instead of brown. Easier to see curly or wavy hair instead of straight.

Every time.


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you to everyone who is still willing to read this after months and months of hiatus. You are all fabulous.

* * *

When the team gets back home, Finn sets him up with one of Brittany's friends, some Latina chick named Santana. She's pretty awesome, actually. Amazing in the sack and she doesn't make him wait for it. Finally he's found a girl who values sex as much as he does. They agree to fuck each other whenever, but not date, cause neither of them actually wants a relationship.

It's the perfect set up. (It's so not perfect because she's totally the wrong girl but whatever, she's willing to put out and the other one isn't, so he deals the best he can.)

Basically, it's a series of booty calls. And for about three months it goes perfectly. He calls her up when Sylvester's been a bitch and he's frustrated. They fuck on the hood of his car at two in the morning.

She has a crap day at the office, she's like a lawyer or some shit, calls him up and she fucks him on her solid oak desk between her laptop and her Blackberry.

It's fucking brilliant.

* * *

But one night while she's riding him hard, he calls out that other girl's name. She finishes off and dismounts like a champ.

His hands are over his face and he can't _fucking_ believe this. He's got a great thing here and he's just screwed it up royally.

"Whatever babe. I was totally going to break up with you anyway." She laughs at him and grabs another condom. "One more time for the road?"

* * *

The Titans have made it into the playoffs. It's a sure bet. They're playing at home (to a packed arena) against some douches from Vancouver, only five games left in the regular season. It's been a pretty fucking physical game and to be honest they're getting slaughtered by the other guys.

Sylvester is yelling at him from behind the bench to stop being such a pussy and hit something. So he does. Some big burly dude, who he thinks is French or something. Which is fucking stupid cause what would a guy from France be doing playing hockey in Canada? Seriously!

He hears Sylvester yell in his head and Santana tell him that they're finished and Rachel saying "No" and he just starts wailing on the guy, hitting him until he can't think about anything but the next punch. And when he's on the ground (and he's pretty sure that he's bleeding or something) and the other guy is on top of him pounding his fists into flesh and padding and jersey, he just closes his eyes and waits until it's all over.

Until he can stop being such a fuck-up.

And suddenly the guy is off of him and the trainers are taking him into the locker room and he's got compresses all over his face. Then he's being bandaged up and told that he's out of the game (again).

Fuck.

* * *

He waits until everyone has left for home before he even takes off his jersey. Everyone has avoided him, and it's probably a good thing. He's really not in the mood to deal with their bullshit and his head is killing him.

The room is quiet as he changes and thinks about what he might have just lost. If he gets thrown out of the playoffs what will his team do? He's not conceited enough to think that they won't be able to carry on without him, but he doesn't really have anything else aside from hockey and this is what he's been working for his entire life and... Fuck, he hopes he hasn't lost all that.

That's when she walks into the room.

"What were you thinking? What part could possibly have to gain from engaging in an altercation with less than a week until playoffs?"

Trust Rachel Berry to not beat around the bush.

"Look, I wasn't –"

"I have no doubt that you weren't. Tell me, Mr. Puckerman, just what exactly did you hope to gain by entering into a violent exchange with another player?"

Her eyes are crazy, and it might be a little bit wrong, but he really loves the fact that she's even talking to him (berating him is more to the point, but he's not one to split hairs).

"You know what, Puckerman, I don't care. I want you to think hard about what you've just done, and know that if the league doesn't suspend you, I _will_ bench you for the next two games to make sure you get it through that incredibly thick head of yours that fighting against the other team does nothing to help our chances."

"You think I don't fucking know that! You think I don't know what I might have lost today. More than just the game. Fuck the game! I let down my fucking team. I let this game become about something else and got fucked over for my trouble." She's not across the room from him anymore she's right in front of him and he's staring down at her and she's just so damn beautiful when she's seethingly angry. And she _really_ is at this moment.

"That's not enough, Puck! Something needs to change. _You _need to change. If you keep fighting I'll bench you for the rest of the season and the post-season, however long that might be."

"That's bullshit, and you know it. Without me, what the fuck kind of team do you have? How are you going to win? You fucking need me."

And he needs her. If he's going down, he might as well do it with style. Well, if he's burning his bridges he might as well do it all the way.

So he kisses her, slanting his mouth, ignoring the dull ache of his jaw from when the Frenchman's fist hit him. He backs her into the wall, opening his lips over hers, letting his tongue trace the inside of her mouth, rushing over her teeth, slipping along the inside of her lip. Fuck, she tastes so good. And she's kissing him back, her fingers digging into his shoulders.

Before he knows what's really going on her underwear is on the floor, her skirt bunched around her hips and his cock is pushing inside her slowly, and holy fuck it feels amazing. She's wrapped around him so tightly he wonders how long it's been for her. His mouth stays on hers as he slides out almost all the way, then back in slowly. He's pretty sure some of the cuts on his face are going to break open again, but he doesn't fucking care. He's finally going to have her; he's not going to complain about a little blood. And as much as he'd like to go slow and savour and whatever, he can't.

He undoes the buttons holding her jacket in place and palms her boobs through her shirt, sliding out and back in hard. He releases her mouth and moves his lips by her ear panting hard with each thrust, listening to the moans in the back of her throat, loving how loud they get when he speeds up his movements.

"I've dreamed of you like this," he moves one hand between them to find her clit and trace around it. "Hot and tight." Traces it again. "It's so much more than that." He pushes against it and she tenses. "Tell me what you need, Rachel. Tell me."

Her hand finds his and she moves his fingers to brush over her clit back and forth with the movement of his hips until her breath hitches once, twice, three times and her lips fuse to his. She comes hard and fast clenching around him and he bottoms out inside her, spasming with her until his muscles give out and they slide down the wall together.

"That might be the hottest sex I have ever had," he says as he slips out of her, and oh shit. He pulls out of her and realizes why. He was in such a hurry to get the job done that he forgot to suit up. "Fuck." He'd forgotten how messy unprotected sex could be. "Rach, is this okay? Are we okay?" He gestures to the mess sliding down her inner thigh. "Are you on the pill?" 'Cause fuck, he's always been careful, ever since sophomore year of high school where his pseudo-girlfriend, Quinn, got pregnant. He has a baby girl out there somewhere (she'll be nine next month, he celebrates each year with a bottle of Jack) and he's not ready to risk what he's got on another (beautiful) mistake. Plus it would totally fuck up Rachel's life plan (he's absolutely sure of it).

"No, it's not okay but I'll take care of it," her voice is shuddering through harshly tight lips.

He pulls his underwear up and buttons up his pants before pulling her along with him. She drags her feet trying to protest but he's not having any of it.

When he's just a step away from the showers he pulls his shirt over his head leaving it lying on the bench, then he works on hers, sliding the jacket off her shoulders before pulling at the soft knit fabric of her blouse. He drapes the shirt carefully and studies her face for a moment. She looks confused, eyebrows drawn close together. Her eyes are guarded and her wide mouth (puffy from his kisses) is in a stern line. She's not looking at him but at the shirt (he's trying his best not to stare at the mint green lace she has covering her boobs.

He reaches a hand out to her hauling her close and kisses her slow and deep, putting all of his frustration and whatever else (definitely a strong healthy lust but some else is there, too. Something he can't quite name yet) into her. His fingers skip down her spine, past the clasp of her bra which he really wants to unhook, but he has priorities. He slides along the skirt, which has fallen back down to a reasonable length again, and his lips smile on hers when he finds the zipper. He feels each prong release as he unlatches it millimetre-by-millimetre.

When it hits the floor, he kneels to move her legs one at a time, holding first her ankle (he circles it slowly with his thumb), then her calf (draws figure eights with a finger there), before finally lifting her lower thigh just above the knee with his hand letting her step out of the skirt. He picks it up off the ground and folds it gently on top of her other clothes (which keeps him from studying her, staring at her because she's beautiful, and he knows once he starts he won't be able to stop).

When he turns back to her with his pants unzipped and falling (thanks to gravity) down to the ground with his boxers, he notices that she's looking at him with a weird expression on her face, but her hands are behind her back undoing her bra so he knows better than to complain or ask questions.

He makes sure they'll have towels before he turns on the warm spray of the shower. When they're both standing there, his eyes trailing the rivers created by the spray along her skin, he speaks to her. "I thought for a minute there you were going to run."

"For a while, so did I." She doesn't smile at him. She doesn't say anything else, but he takes a bar of soap and rubs his hands together until he gets a lather, starting at her neck, massaging in the bubbles until a thick foam forms on her skin. She's so soft everywhere and she releases these little moans when his hands run along the inside of her arm. He stops to drag a hand across her boobs, which are small but perfect to him, with the sole intention of washing her off (of course).

By the time he makes it down to her hips he grabs the bar of soap again, pushing her into the spray to wash off while he rubs the suds in his hands again trailing his hands down her back to run over her ass, laughing a bit to himself as she jumps a clear foot off the ground and turns to hit him with a closed fist, letting the spray wash off the soap he just applied. His hands are still covered with bubbles and the smell of iIrish Spring/i (what? It's a manly kind of soap smell) as he traces circles over the neatly trimmed hair at the apex of her thighs. Her hands find his shoulders (her nipples skim over his skin as she presses their bodies together and it feels fucking amazing). His cock is already half hard but this is about showing her that she was more than just an easy lay, more than just a quickie fuck in the locker room. Because... well he doesn't really know. But she's pretty fantastic and he wants to know how flexible she really is and maybe this is a place to start.

His one hand massages the skin of her upper thigh spreading her legs so that he can reach between them with the soap and start to clean her off and get her off at the same time (he's a total fucking stud, so there's no way he's letting this prime opportunity pass him by). He rubs his fingers slowly passing along the length of her slit, pausing to dip between the already slippery skin there, polishing soft circles around her clit (not touching it yet, not yet). He removes his hands entirely, reaching for the soap again, carefully leading it over his palms then around his fingers. She watches him, her mouth open and wanting, until he slides two fingers back between her legs and straight inside her. He leaves them there as his mouth slants over hers, his tongue stretching long to lap at her upper lip before his teeth bite it gently. He swallows her groan as his thumb slicks over her clit as he pulls his still soapy fingers out, then back in. He keeps moving his hand, the other one moving to clean off whatever sticky remnants might still be lingering from their first go at it.

When she's right on the edge of another orgasm, her lips breaking away from his, her breath coming in harsh pants, her muscles tightening around his fingers, he leans into the water watching it sluicing off her neck and down her back. "I wish you could see yourself right now," he whispers into her ear. "I wish you could see – "(moves his fingers hard inside her again, three this time because she's so close) "- how beautiful you are with my fingers working inside you. Your body so hot and tense." He curves his fingers into her, "How you arch into me when you come."

That's all it takes. He continues to play her like the old martin his dad left him when he took off, tracing, rubbing, curling, and sliding into her until her wetness floods his hand, all while she makes nonsensical sounds with that mouth he adores.

When she finally comes down she kisses him hard reaching around him letting the water run over her skin until she finds what she's looking for (honestly he's a little surprised that she can still stand because that _must_ have been a mind-blowing experience). When she turns she's got this wicked gleam in her eyes and he loves it. And he's able to imagine for just a moment what's about to happen, but when her sudsy hands wrap around his cock, he knows he's about ten seconds from making a mess of himself. She slides her hand over him maybe five times (honestly he's too far gone to count) and he comes hard on her stomach.

"Good thing we're in the shower." He kisses her thoughtfully then, soft and sweet and for some reason it feels right to him.

* * *

When they're dry and re-dressed he walks her to her car. He doesn't kiss her again, but he does run a finger along the side of her face like maybe if he tried hard enough he could recreate all this in his mind and it would be just as vivid. But then she's smiling at him (her knit top back in place beneath her jacket) and driving away.

* * *

And of course, it doesn't end there.

* * *

The next time is after the very next game. He doesn't play because her word is gold and she did warn him. She's benched him for the two games prior to the playoffs because she can and Sylvester agreed with her (which is its own kind of fucked up).

He watches the whole game go down on his T.V., wishing he hadn't been such a fuck-up and wishing that he could fuck up like that more often (the taste of her freshly cleaned skin is still at the forefront of his mind). The team plays well without him, they're still better with him, but they manage to score a bit.

He wants to re-watch Hudson's epic goal on the late night news so he stays up, dreading the four mile run he's going to do tomorrow. Just before the item runs again there's a knock at the door. He doesn't normally get a lot of visitors at 11:35 on a Wednesday night so he's got a pretty good idea of who might be standing on his front step. Sure enough, there she is, brown hair tied back in a severe bun, eyes smoky with that makeup stuff she uses, skirt short as shit again.

He pulls her into the room and they fuck against the living room wall – failing epically to remove their clothes.

They slouch down close to the ground and he talks for the first time since she's arrived. "We're going to need to slow down. This is the second time I've forgotten." She groans as he pulls out of her (she's still fucking vibrating around him and he thinks if he stays inside her he'll be hard again in no time).

"It would be irresponsible of me to not deal with the consequences of our trysts. Safe sex is important, especially since we have yet to share our sexual history with each other." She still manages to spout this shit out like it's supposed to make sense to someone who isn't an Oxford graduate. "If we're going to continue our sexual liaison, which I assume we are, I feel like we should both take responsibility for providing contraceptives."

"And I should definitely carry some rubbers with me at all times." He says it under his breath but she hears it all the same and smiles at him.

"Yes."

"I'll show you where I keep them." He smiles at her and takes her hand, leading her upstairs to his bathroom, the replay forgotten on the T.V.

* * *

They fuck twice more (he manages to remove their clothes the second time), once in the bathroom with protection this time, and once on top of his sheets.

Each time he's struck by how fucking amazing she is, not just her body, but her. She laughs during sex. Who else does that? And she has the grace of a dancer, mad flexibility, and she has no inhibitions at all.

After her fourth orgasm of the night (he managed to double her up once – he's such a fucking stud) she replaces her clothes and kisses him quickly on the lips before walking (very slowly, thank you very much) to her car.

He watches her drive away (it must be like two in the morning or some shit, but he doesn't even care) and he's strangely content (or sated) and sad at the same time. He passes out on the sofa in the living room before he can really think too hard about why.

* * *

It becomes a post-game ritual for them. Never before a game, never the next day, always right after.

Hudson notices something. But never makes more than a, "Congrats, dude" kind of comment about it.

And all those dreams Puck had of her, in all those different ways? Well, he's had her those ways now. She's fucking phenomenal. Really.

Sometimes she even suggests things (new and different and fucking dirty things) that they should try. He thinks he might have the coolest chick alive.

The day the results from his tests come in (clean just like he knew he would be) she fucks him hard against the locker room door and doesn't even make him wear the latex (coolest chick ALIVE).

Not that they make a habit of that. But still.

* * *

They beat the team from Florida in the first round, and the Titans celebrate in the Tampa hotel bar. He has a few drinks before he goes up to Rachel's room.

They're still being covert, but honestly those guys are a bit... clueless when it comes to shit like this, so Puck's not worried.

For some reason he knows that the sex tonight is not going to be hard and fast. Not that they always go that way. Variety is necessary for a really successful relationship – fuck, now he's starting to sound like her.

Still, when she opens the door from the inside he's not really prepared for what he sees. She's still wearing the same clothes as earlier and nothing has really changed, but...

He trails kisses along the curve of her neck as and they step into the room together. She pulls him by his tie (hockey players have uniforms for after games, too, you know) until her legs hit the back of the mattress. Her fingers work to unloosen the knot then work on the buttons of his shirt. He does the same, loosens the pins from her hair, unbuttons her jacket, pushing it off her shoulders before working at the buttons on the front of her shirt.

When they're both naked, clothes strewn around the room, he lies on top of her sliding up her body slowly enjoying the heat underneath him. She's got a condom in her hand (had enough forethought to pull it out of his back pocket before he ditched his pants). All he knows is that he wants to savour her today.

He knows her body so well but still, he wants to make her shudder and moan and reach for him. So he sets to work. Kissing all the places on her body he knows she likes, below her ear down to the base of her neck where he works his teeth gently along the skin there (just hard enough to leave a small mark, one that she'll see when she looks in the mirror the next morning, to remind her). His hands push his body further down the bed again so he can press his lips to one shoulder then the other before cutting a path along her chest, pressing feather light kisses anywhere but over her nipples until she presses her legs together tightly and pulls his head exactly where she wants it. His girl's a little take-charge, what can he say.

He blows hot air over the puckered skin before he darts his tongue out to touch. She shivers and he blows air on it again. Her little hands grip his head harder, pulling him down as her legs rub together furiously and she arches herself closer to him. Finally he gives her what she wants, lazily opening his mouth over her a bit too wide so he treats her tit like a popsicle flicking his tongue over it inside his mouth until only his lips are left tugging on the sensitive skin. He rolls his body so that he rests on his side and lets his other hand work on her other boob, thumb brushing around in circles keeping her occupied until he can run his tongue in patterns along her stomach, kissing around her belly button before shifting again (he feels a tremor start in her stomach and work its way out – God, it's beautiful). He spreads her legs wide and slides them both so he can kneel on the ground between them, he lets his finger slip deep inside her and she's already fucking soaked but he wants to make her come slowly this first time tonight (fuck yeah, there are going to be other times). So he sneaks a second finger inside her and leaves it there doesn't curl it trying to find her G-spot, doesn't push them in and out of her creating the kind of friction he knows she wants, but lets them sit inside her as still as he can (he almost thinks about jerking himself off before he really gets started here, just to make sure that he's ready when the time comes, but then who cares if he makes a fucking mess of the hotel sheets, it was bound to happen anyway).

She tries to arch her hips up, tries to make small circles and grind down on his fingers but his free hand holds her still.

"Relax Rach." He doesn't remember when he started calling her Rach, but somehow it feels right. Besides he knows she can't relax, she's already so on edge it probably won't take much to make her come, but since he wants this to be extreme he tries his hardest. It's not like they haven't done this before, it's just... he's never wanted to take his time like this. So he tells her. "I can't wait to taste you, baby. To put my mouth on you and feel you all around my tongue." She whimpers (fucking whimpers) at him. He's so the man! "Can't wait to take your clit between my lips and suck. Hard." She's impossibly tight on his fingers and he's worried that he won't even get to enact what he's saying, but she's so fucking gorgeous when she comes so he keeps going anyway. "Maybe I'll use my teeth, just a little bit. Not so much that it hurts," she clenches on him, "just enough so you feel it. Can you feel it already? Are you imagining it, Rach?"

She does that thing that's halfway between a scream and a sigh and this time it's his name. Just as her muscles start to spasm around his fingers he leans forward and does what he said, sucking hard on her clit, biting around it gently and sucking again. He carefully sends another finger deep into her pussy waiting until she can inhale properly before curling his fingers towards his body, pressing dark circles on her g-spot, releasing her hip so she can arch off the bed with a series of ioh, Gods/i mixed in with his name.

When she comes down (again) he feels pretty pleased with himself, and his cock is fucking throbbing to be inside her. He moves to lie beside her on the bed, she shifts herself up so that they're both against the pillows. He watches her rip open the condom packet and rolls the latex down on him and it's fucking intense. She lowers herself down on him and he doesn't even recognize the noises coming from his own throat. She rides him slowly, so slowly he starts to wonder if she wants to get herself off at all or if this is all about him. But it doesn't matter because he's already there all he needs is his name whispered through her lips, "Noah." He fills the condom his arms moving her hips violently down on his cock until he's spent inside it and her.

"Fuck, Rachel," he says when he can finally speak.

"Yeah," she rolls off of him and he slides the condom off, tying it carefully before throwing it in the garbage.

He passes out for a while, holding her to his side.

* * *

When he wakes up he wants her again, so half asleep he slides into her.

He thrusts deep and slow, until her hips move to meet his and her eyes fly open.

She looks at him with glazed eyes as they both tumble off the edge together.

* * *

She wraps herself in the sheets, he doesn't know why 'cause he's seen every inch of her. He's already put on his boxers and is now working to pull up his pants. She leans over the side of the bed and throws him his shirt.

"I should –" he starts. But he's not really sure what he's trying to say because he doesn't really - (he can't handle this right now.)

"Yeah, I know."

He crosses the room to brush his lips over her forehead.

"I'll see you tomorrow morning."

He doesn't turn back, but leaves the room quickly because for the first time it's really fucking hard to leave her. He really doesn't want to. Not at all.

* * *

He tosses and turns that night.

* * *

They sleep together four more times before everything changes (like it hadn't changed before and it was all the fifth time's fault or something stupid).

They've been playing Vancouver in the second round and he's worked super fucking hard to stay away from that French douche partly 'cause Sylvester said that she'd rip off his fucking balls if he got benched by the dragon lady again (Sylvester's words not his). And partly because he wants to win.

But something is wrong. They've lost three of the last four games and it's not because of a lack of chances; there are lots of chances. The team is communicating well, Karovski is doing his job – the goals that are getting through are mostly dirty, tip-ins and shit – but they continue losing.

It's late in the third during game five of the series; they're playing at their arena with their fans screaming at them. It's do or die time, things are all tied up (which works in favour of the Titans).

Except it doesn't work.

Puck's on the ice with Chang and Hudson in the offensive zone shooting the puck at the net as hard and often as they can, but nothing is working and finally they end up turning over the puck. One of the Vancouver players runs it up the ice and in a blink, the red light goes on behind Karovski and the ref points to the net.

The clock reads thirty six seconds. It's possible. They could score. He skates quickly over to the bench.

"Sit the fuck down, you mindless morons. Here's what's going to happen: Rutherford, you throw the puck to Hummel, Hummel, you get the puck in the net. Any questions about this plan? No? Good. Do not fail me!" Puck thinks that Hummel is shaking in his skates and that the poor bastard might have just pissed himself but he moves on to the ice anyway.

The puck drops, Vancouver sends it down into the Titans zone and it stays there, out of the net, but in the wrong end, until the horn blows. And the arena is dead silent for a moment except for the sound of the Vancouver players' skates on the ice sliding towards their goalie.

They line up and shake hands and the Frenchman even apologizes to him in pretty decent English.

But then they're done and it's over. Really over. Their season. Done.

Sylvester doesn't say anything to the team as a whole just stares them down because they already know everything that she might say. Puck hears her mumble something about Boca and tanning, but whatever.

* * *

After he has cooled down and showered he drives over to Rachel's place.

The lights are off, she's not home yet so he waits in his car, the radio playing some kind of early nineties rock band. He sings along quietly to song after song, surprised that he still remembers the words until she pulls up the drive ten minutes later.

Still he waits inside his truck until she opens the door herself and turns the keys in the ignition. He's already unbuckled his seatbelt, so when her long hair brushes along his arm and her fingers weave through his, he unfolds his legs to slide out.

She walks beside him to her front door where she grabs her keys with her spare hand and unlocks it to let them in. He takes off his shoes at the door and sits himself down on the couch. She walks into the kitchen and comes back with two beers.

They sit there, drinking in silence for a few minutes before it starts. "That's it!" He sounds resigned to his own ears. "It's over."

She just continues to sit beside him, close enough so their elbows brush whenever she takes a pull from the bottle (and again, how awesome is his girl? Drinking from the bottle!). She doesn't try to placate him with words, which is nice 'cause normally she has a hard time shutting up. Well, sometimes. A few times.

"Our season, our chances, gone." They sit and finish the beers silently in her house, the lamps around them illuminated.

It should feel awkward them being like this, fully clothed and not trying to get into each other's pants. But it's not. Maybe it's because he knows that she cares about the team and the game (she wouldn't have hired Satan's Handmaiden Sylvester if she didn't). He doesn't really know. It's not exactly easy because he's not really one to talk about his feelings and disappointments and stuff, but she cares and that's important.

So when she does lean over to kiss him finally, it's soft and tentative. Her body is still removed from his, just her lips are touching him and that's enough. He tastes the wheat beer on her and suddenly remembers what makes Rachel Berry awesome isn't just that she listens. It's not just that.

So he gently leans over her, putting his beer bottle on the carpeted floor (it's empty but he doesn't want to leave rings on the coffee table) and stretches his body over hers. He could spend days just kissing her, languid and slow, then dark and deep, or quick and playful, a variety of kisses each one just as special as the next. As it is, they make out on the sofa like teenagers trying to get to second base before their parents find them.

Eventually he gets her naked on that couch, he's naked, too (which in a weird way is an important afterthought to have) and he's remembered to pull the condom out of his pants pocket again. And fuck, he needs her. As it is, he's already grinding against her and _soclose_ to coming, but he needs to get her off first. He doesn't want to use any tricks or toys or anything like that, just his cock (freshly covered with latex) moving inside her, the weight of his lower body on hers, and his mouth kissing her.

When he comes he sees white, his eyes fly open and his mouth breaks away from hers, gasping. He cups her tits rolling his thumb over her nipples until her pussy clenches hard around him and she cries out his name into the quiet house.

* * *

They move to her bedroom and watch some stupid movie called "The Cutting Edge" which was actually okay since the guy was a professional hockey player turned figure skater – and those dudes are a lot stronger than they look (what? His sister used to skate).

When the movie's over (and the main characters have confessed their undying love – which was super lame) he turns to her and says, "toe pick," which sends her into a fit of giggles and ends with her naked body riding his, backlit by the light of the T.V. screen.

When she orgasms this time, she stays on top of him with him inside her, his cock softening slightly.

Her breath flutters over his chest, her fingers trace along his war wounds. She asks about them. The one along his side from when he was teaching Sarah how to ride a bike and she'd pushed him onto the road by accident. Some asshole had left a broken beer bottle in the gutter. Twelve stitches and two months later he was good as new and Sarah had gotten back on that bike. The one high on his chest, where he'd been cut by a skate as a kid, just a fall, but a bad one and the other kid had been fine. Along his arm where the guitar string from his martin had broken sharply cutting a line through his skin.

"They give you character," she says after a while, shifting her hips so he slides impossibly deeper into her, hardening inside of her.

"Again," he growls flipping her over, still joined, pulling her knees up higher so that they almost touch his shoulders as he pounds hard into her again and again and again. He's fierce this time, wants it all and wants it now. When he knows that he's close (two times bareback and it doesn't take him long to get there) he sticks two fingers in his mouth quickly then drags them down to her clit, pressing it hard from side to side until she contracts around him, arching her back off the mattress, her mouth searching for his. He follows her, his cock pulsing hot and hard and deep inside her.

He pulls out this time, because he honestly doesn't think he can handle another round and he curls his arms around her.

His eyes have that heavy feeling he gets after orgasm, he's about to fall asleep, he's sure of it. But Rachel has turned on her side her back pressed to his chest and his fingers laced with hers, her breathing is deep and even so he decides to let it go for tonight.

* * *

He sleeps dreamlessly.

* * *

He wakes up with his arms around a familiar body, in a familiar bed, but definitely not his own. He stretches all the way from his finger tips to his toes before he recognizes the smell of the woman he's holding on to. He takes just a moment to sniff at her hair because she always smells like strawberries and vanilla. He loves both of those things.

He just holds her like that for a few minutes until he recognizes the tension in her body. She's awake and the questions are about to begin.

Except they never come. She turns and stares at him, blinking eyes still glossy with sleep. He thinks again how beautiful she is, even with those strange lines across her face from her pillow. All he wants to do is touch her. He runs his hand along her arm, over her shoulder blade up her neck. She leans into him just a bit.

This is different.

He wants to tell her that. But he can't. So he clears his throat and rolls out of her bed. He pulls on his pants and shirt quickly before looking back at her more because he wants to be ready to make a quick exit than a real need to be clothed. She hasn't moved a muscle just continues to look at him.

"How do you feel about pancakes?" he asks. It appears that his brain to mouth filter has malfunctioned but whatever. He likes pancakes.

"Good. I feel favourably towards pancakes." She smiles at him and he thinks maybe this whole sleepover thing will blow over and everything will go back to normal (or something like it). "Do I need to get dressed?" The smile turns into a smirk as she props herself up letting the sheet fall down to her waist.

"We'll make it a clothing optional breakfast," he responds before giving her a wink and walking down the stairs to the kitchen. He's so busy thinking about how he's going to avoid burning the pancakes if she takes him up on that offer (her body is absolutely scorchingly hot) that he misses the last few steps and falls hands first into the wall at the base of the stairs. It makes quite the noise.

"You okay down there?" She yells down at him from her room.

"Yeah, I'm good." He stifles his laugh.

He makes pancakes, rifling through her cupboards (which sounds dirty but isn't) until he finds everything he needs. By the time she walks down the stairs in a robe (damn it!), he's finished cooking and has two plates pilled high, with peanut butter and syrup and a variety of other condiments on the table.

They eat and laugh and talk and after they've finished washing the dishes he grabs his keys.

She stretches on her tiptoes and presses her mouth to his lightly (he must imagine the swipe of her tongue along his lip) for just a second before pushing him out the door.

And just before he opens the door he yells back at her, "Rach?"

"Yes." She leans against the door jam, the knot at the front of her robe the only thing keeping him from having a front row view of her curves.

"I have some personal time coming up here, and I was wondering... How do you feel about Mexican Food?"

* * *

The Titan's season opener is against Los Angeles, and the arena is sold out. He's nervous all through the National Anthem, thinking back on the last game they played that ended their season and the heartbreak he felt.

Then he thinks about the summer he just had, and suddenly it all seems kismet.

He remembers what it felt like to watch those kids play when he was a kid, shooting the puck because it's what they wanted to do. It's what _he's_ always wanted to do. He just loves this game.

And he's going to play his best.

By the end of the game, he is up three points (one goal and two assists) but none of that matters.

Because years from now, no one will remember how many points he scored on this particular night, or how many penalty minutes he got. The only thing that matters now is that his girl is upstairs in the owner's box watching him (probably imagining him naked) and he knows that whether he wins or loses this game, she'll still be his. 


End file.
